


I wanna see what you’re willing to lose

by jeynestheon



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bondage, F/M, Jealousy, Jon Snow is Not a Stark, Jon is a politician, Kinda, Miscommunication, Public Sex, Sansa is a journalist, anyway, he’s actually a mormont sorta, just a bastardized soft house of cards au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-15
Updated: 2020-08-15
Packaged: 2021-03-05 22:22:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,594
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25912795
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jeynestheon/pseuds/jeynestheon
Summary: She wasn’t going to wear the white dress.Sansa had bought it for a very specific occasion. Said occasion supposedly involved champagne and chocolate covered strawberries, and most definitely involved several mind blowing orgasms, but neither of those things got the chance to come to fruition. The day of, she was blown off with nothing but a curt, perfunctory email. Sorry. You know how it is.Maybe she could have forgiven that. Maybe—if he hadn’t proceeded to blow off her calls for a week thereafter. Sansa was left with a hot dress, a bruised ego, and tears she definitely wasn’t going to waste on the likes of a certain ruggedly good looking, newly sworn in congressman.She has a life.It doesn’t revolve around him.
Relationships: Jon Snow/Sansa Stark
Comments: 22
Kudos: 348





	I wanna see what you’re willing to lose

**Author's Note:**

> title from desire by years and years

The Democratic Majority Whip has a thing for her breasts.

His name is Tyrion Lannister. It doesn’t help that he happens to be only a little over three feet tall, making it rather convenient for him. He’s nearly twice her age, but he doesn’t seem to mind all that much, judging from the way he’s been angling closer to her this entire conversation. He also happens to be her boss’s little brother, so Sansa can’t exactly tell him to fuck right off. Cersei might not like him, but a Lannister is still a Lannister. And only a Lannister can tell another Lannister to fuck right off. All she can do, really, is curse herself for choosing to wear the white dress. 

  
She wasn’t _going_ to wear the white dress.

It’s expertly cut to define her chest in a tasteful way, with a slit going down her leg. The back is fully exposed. The straps are thin. Sansa bought it for a very specific occasion. Said occasion supposedly involved champagne and chocolate covered strawberries, and most definitely involved several mind blowing orgasms, but neither of those things got the chance to come to fruition. The day of, she was blown off with nothing but a curt, perfunctory email. _Sorry. You know how it is._

Maybe she could have forgiven that. _Maybe—_ if he hadn’t proceeded to blow off her calls for a week thereafter. Sansa was left with a hot dress, a bruised ego, and tears she definitely wasn’t going to waste on the likes of a certain ruggedly good looking, newly sworn in congressman. 

She has a life.

It doesn’t revolve around _him._

Unfortunately, life has brought her to Governor Arryn’s mansion for his birthday dinner. Jon Arryn happened to be the uncle of her date tonight, Harry Hardyng. Harry was her way in. Harry was her chance at a story, and an excuse to break in this dress she wasted money on. Not to mention that Harry was gorgeous, albeit semi regularly obnoxious, and interested in her. 

He has also brought her a lot of trouble. 

He’s too busy kissing politician ass to hold her hand and ward off Tyrion Lannister’s not so stealthy advances. On top of that, he failed to mention that both newly elected senators and representatives of DC would be in attendance tonight, which she had to discover herself after being _glared at_ for the last half an hour. He nearly corners her alone three different times. She has gotten stealthy with her aversions. Like a gazelle nimbly prancing away from the jaws of a wolf. A wolf who happens to look extremely good in a black suit—not the point, though. Sansa decided she would much rather continue this uncomfortable conversation with Tyrion Lannister than have to face Jon Snow.

He’s watching her, of course. Like a hawk. A hawk that doesn’t have anything better to do like, say, help run the government. She likes it. She hates that she likes it. She feels flushed all over. Sansa has to keep reminding herself to breathe. She has to keep reminding herself that just because he’s seeing her in this dress, doesn’t mean he can take it off her. 

She can _do_ this.

Sansa smiles at Tyrion dazzling, dialing up her charm just a bit more. “After 20 years in Congress, you must have a lot of stories to tell.” 

Something sparks in his green eyes at her sudden interest. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

“I’m merely curious, Congressman.”

“Tyrion, Sansa. How many times have I told you to call me Tyrion?”

She humors him with another smile. “I’m just curious, Tyrion.”

“Well, I could possibly attempt to sate this curiosity over drinks.” He says casually. “Theoretically, of course.”

“We’re drinking right now.”

“I could show you a much better time than this.” 

“Careful.” She says from behind her wine glass. “Don’t oversell yourself and get me all excited.”

He throws back his head and laughs loudly. Sansa just smiles until she sees it, right out the corner of her eye. Something moving towards her. _Someone._

Any semblance of a smile dies on her lips. 

“If it isn’t my favorite rookie.” Tyrion greets him with a crooked grin. 

Jon sounds anything but flattered. Sansa can’t know for sure. She’s too busy inspecting her nails. “Exactly how many people have you said that to this evening?” 

Tyrion’s smile shrinks the tiniest bit. He starts to drink. “Part of being a politician is learning how to take a compliment, kid.” 

“And the flirting—is that a job requirement, too?”

She nearly chokes on her wine. She stifles it with a delicate cough. 

Tyrion roars with laughter again. Definitely drunk. “Only when they’re pretty.” He turns to her. “Speaking of pretty—where are my manners? This is—”

“We’ve met already.” Jon gets the words out before she can. He addresses her quite casually, like he hasn’t spent hours at a time with his head between her legs. “Miss Stark.”

Sansa has no choice but to look at him now. He has left her with no choice. He had a _tendency_ to do that. He’s dressed in all black tonight—as if he knew what she was going to be wearing and went out of his way to show just how different they were and why they could never work. His hair is slicked back, but he missed a curl. It’s just lingering by his eyebrow, begging to be brushed back. He’s irritatingly _pretty._ Worst of all—he doesn’t even believe it. 

“Congressman.” She says finally, taking his hand with a smile that hurts. “Congratulations. The title suits you.”

His hand is warm and rough and the briefest moment of contact sends shocks shooting up her spine. She is quick to take her hand back casually, but she can still feel his skin against hers.

Jon opens his mouth to say something—but he’s stopped short at the same exact moment Sansa feels a hand on her waist.

“Congressmen,” Harry grins boyishly at them, his Georgia peach drawl only adding to his charm. “Y’all don’t mind if I steal her away for a dance, do you?”

“I’ve been hogging her for long enough. Please.” Tyrion assures him with a wave of his hand. 

Jon says nothing. His jaw is clenched and his lips are pressed so thin that they turn white. 

“May I?” Harry whispers in her ear.

Sansa forces herself to look away from Jon, taking Harry’s hand. “You may.”

He leads her to the dance floor. Jon’s glare burns holes into her back the entire time.

* * *

Before this, Sansa had been sleeping with Jon Snow for about eight months.

So she knows him. Pretty damn well. She knows how he takes his coffee, and how he likes his eggs in the morning. She knows how he smells when he gets in from a run. She knows he likes seeing her in heels and monochrome colors. She knows he likes it when she rides him.

But she never knows what he’s actually _thinking._

Tonight is different, though. She’s under his skin. He’s pissed and he’s not afraid to show it. The way he glares at her as Harry spins her around the room leaves her feeling lightheaded. For once, she has the power. She has _him._ She doesn’t want it anymore, but still.

Any other day, Jon has a good poker face. It’s exactly why he’s gonna make a good politician. That, and the feelings he inspires in people. There’s something about Jon Snow that makes people want to follow him into the metaphorical trenches. He won the election by a huge landslide, and every single person who voted for him would probably throw themselves on a grenade for him. Hell, maybe even the people who didn’t vote for him too. Everyone simply loves him because he’s easy to love.

When, exactly, had she become one of those people?

When had she become _this_ girl—the one who obsessed over whether a guy called her or not. Being around him has regressed her into a small and fussy child who needs constant attention and affection and reassurances. Not from just anyone, but from him. Because he’s normally so aloof and detached, it makes his attentions even sweeter. She brought that out in him. Only her. 

But not anymore, apparently. Because he hasn’t called her since he got back from his stupid secret business trip to who the hell knows where. Whatever. She doesn’t need him. She definitely doesn’t need this.

Sansa dances with Harry for two songs before leaning in to whisper in his ear. “Can you excuse me for a second? I have to use the restroom.”

Harry kisses her cheek. “Of course.”

The only reason she chose now to excuse herself is because Jon is nowhere to be seen. She could use a break without risking him cornering her. Sansa feels like she could faint. She doesn’t go to the bathroom. She ends up in the garden, breathing heavily. She’s embarrassingly wet between her thighs. The chase is taking its sick toll on her. She likes it. She hates that she likes it. Fuck a story. She needs to leave. _Now._

“What are you doing?”

Jon is standing behind her. She knows this, just like she should have known that this was his plan all along. Her heart skips a frantic beat in her chest at the harshness of his tone. Her blood is humming and it hurts to breathe but she tosses her hair back and looks over her shoulder at him coolly. Levelly. “Sorry?”

He steps close. She resists the urge to step back. 

“What are you doing _here?_ ” His voice goes so low that she nearly shivers. His lip curls up. “With him?”

“Working.” She says innocently.

“And that includes letting Hardyng drool over you all night?”

“We were just dancing.”

“Bullshit. You’re playing with him.” His voice is only quiet enough for her to hear. Deceptively soft, but no less commanding. “Send him home. Now.”

Anger strengthens her spine. Her hands ball up into fists. Who does he think he is, ordering her around like she’s his? Sansa glares at him.

“No. He’s my friend who gave me a ride. and he works for the governor. He’s showing me around.”

“I could have shown you around.” 

Sansa sneers.“That’d require you to actually pay attention to me. You’d be biting off more than you can chew.”

She moves to stomp off, but Jon grabs her wrist, pulling her back in. Close to him. She can smell him, homegrown and heady. She can see the faded scar in his eyebrow that she always forgot to ask him about, and she can see his mouth, full and lush. 

“Is that what this is about?” He demands. “I didn’t call you back, so you pitch a fit and bat your eyes at the first asshole who gives you attention?”

Her cheek feels warm as if she’s been slapped. She snatches her hand back. “Fuck you.”

Sansa tries to leave again, but Jon is quicker. In an instant, he’s crowding her, large hands spanning her waist and nose brushing hers. She can’t breathe.

“You want to, don’t you?” It’s as much of a taunt as it is a genuine question. “Yeah?”

His breath is hot against her neck. She wants to collapse into his arms and just surrender. She wants to push him away and pull him closer at the same time. She mumbles something stupid and intelligible, lost in a quiet moan as his mouth brushes her ear.

“This is new.” He murmurs. “You being speechless.”

Her temper flares and her hand flies up to do something—slap him or push him away but she does neither of those things. Sansa brings him closer to her, grasping his chin tight, and she crushes his lips against hers so hard it hurts. But she likes the way it hurts. She can feel him hard against her thigh and she nearly shatters when he licks into her mouth. 

His hand drops lower and lower, till he’s parting the slit that exposes her leg and venturing underneath her dress.

“Come home with me.” 

That snaps her out of it. She pulls away from him, mouth swollen. “No.”

His hand cups her, just over her lace underwear. His heels grinds against her clit and she rocks against his hand, whimpering.

“I said I was sorry.”

She covers his hand with hers, moving it underneath her panties so he can touch her better. “No,” She gasps. “You didn’t.”

Jon huffs exasperatedly, and Sansa would have laughed if his fingers hadn’t started stroking her heat with an embarrassing ease. Her head falls back pitifully, and she can feel his smirk against her neck. 

“I’m sorry.” He says it very convincingly. “Happy?”

She’s about to tell him no, when he slips a finger inside of her and she bites down on the inside of her cheek to keep from babbling incoherent nonsense. She says nothing. She refuses to give him anything but. 

He stops his movements, clearly miffed. “What? You want me to get down on my knees?” 

Sansa pretends she couldn’t care less that his hand is no longer between her legs. Like she isn’t close to tears. She lifts her chin. “It won’t harm you any to try.”

Surprisingly enough, Jon gives another one of those sighs before dropping down to one knee, suit and all. It gives her a thrill to see him like this. She doesn’t show it. 

“You’re even shorter than you usually are.” She remarks casually.

He ignores that, hands moving underneath her dress. His eyes are dark and darkening and his mouth is red from kissing her.

“Forgive me.” 

Sansa hums. “You can do better than that.”

“Always so hard to please.” He starts pulling down her panties so slowly she wants to kick them off. She doesn’t. She holds her breath, and watches him put them in his pocket. 

“When we get out there,” His hand caresses the back of her calf. “You’re gonna tell Hardyng you’ve got your own ride home.” 

“Why,” Her mouth feels like sandpaper as he parts her legs a little. “would I do that?”

Jon doesn’t say anything, he doesn’t need to. But his mouth closes over her cunt and his tongue sweeps _up,_ making her entire body shudder until her knees go weak and she can’t do anything but cling to him and beg and beg—

And she surrenders. “Okay. Okay—Just don’t stop. Please—”

He doesn’t. 

* * *

That was really fucking stupid.

Having him get her off in the governor's mansion, where anyone could have seen them. It was reckless, and dangerous—but it was exactly the point. Like he’s trying to prove something to her. That he doesn’t care who sees them, because she’s his. 

She comes embarrassingly quick, and he wastes no time kissing her as she continues to melt into his arms. He doesn’t let go of her until her balance returns. 

“I’ll wait in the car.” He tells her. “Ten minutes.”

Sansa pulls at his tie as if she’s adjusting it and not contemplating wrapping it around his beefy neck. “Don’t tell me what to do.”

And Jon just laughs, because he knows she’ll listen. 

And she does. Jon goes inside first, and she gives it five minutes before following him. She finds Harry, and feigns a horrible migraine, fanning her face. 

“Do you need me to take you home?” Harry says uncertainly, not looking too pleased at the prospect. 

“Don’t worry. Stay here.” She kisses his cheek. “I’ve got a ride.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“Call me when you get home.” Harry cups her elbow. 

Sansa nods, fully knowing that she probably won’t be going home tonight. 

* * *

Jon is waiting in the car, as promised, talking on the phone. She gets there with five minutes to spare. His driver opens the door for her. Sansa slips inside. The drive back to his place is about 20 minutes. Under the keen eye of his chauffeur, they don’t dare touch.

Not yet. 

But when they get into his brownstone, things progress as they usually do. He carries her to his room, mouth threatening to ruin her as he ravages it. He kisses her entire body. He runs his thumb along the column of her throat. He begins to unzip her dress, and take it off—

But she remembers her promise. 

He won’t be taking off her dress. 

“No,” she gasps, after breaking away from his mouth. He’s just hovering over her, his hand is between her legs, but things are different now. 

He looks at her, bemused. “No?”

This was the problem between them—she gave him too much control. She was too willing to lie on her back, helpless for him. She liked it too much. And where had that gotten her? Being ignored. 

She could control him, too. 

Sansa shifts them so she’s on top of him, straddling his waist. She pushes her hair out of her face. “My way.”

Jon doesn’t look so confused, anymore. She’s on top of him, and she knows that to him, nothing else really matters now. He agrees, “Your way.”

She kisses him hard, lacing their fingers and pushing them down against the bed. She rocks her hips against his and he nips her lower lip. She lets go of his hands to pull his belt off fully, and they immediately go to the straps of her dress. 

“No.” She pushes his hands upward again, lips curving. “No touching.”

“Then what are we doing right now?” He looks at her hips in question, lifting them up to meet hers and she swallows a whimper.

Sansa takes the belt, looping it around the headboard handle, and then one of his wrists until he’s secure. 

He’s interested. He hates that he’s so interested, she can tell. He’s harder than he was in the car and it occurs to Sansa then that maybe she’s not the only one who likes relinquishing control. 

Jon watches her grab another belt from a closet. “You know what you’re doing?”

It’s a taunt that makes her weak in the knees. He tied her up a few times before, and each time he left her shaking and begging him to _stop_ making her come. She contemplates letting him go, just because she’s eager for that feeling again. But even moreso, she’s eager to make _him_ feel that way. 

She ties his other wrist to the bed. “We’ll see, won’t we?”

That’s when she kisses him. Sansa kisses him slowly, tongue sweeping, making sure to take her time. He’s eager, but she sets the pace, making him take it how she wants him to.   
  


She kisses down his neck slow and open mouthed, the way he liked to do to her. She unbuttons his shirt with her teeth. Her hand slides down his stomach, to the trail of wiry dark hair underneath his navel, disappearing underneath his pants, and she follows it, until she has his cock in her hand. She strokes, and he curses loudly. “Fuck.”

“I can stop.” She murmurs against his skin, as she drops to her elbows.

“Don’t.” His response is hissed through his teeth.

“Don’t….what?”

She’s got him in both her hands, mouth so close. That’s where his eyes drop, before he closes them. His neck is all flushed. She wants to kiss it again.

“Please.” He says quietly.

_Please._ It rings in her ears and she doesn’t waste any time taking him into her mouth. She takes him all the way to the back of her throat, until she can’t breathe. Then she moves forward and back again, sucking. His hands yank against the bed posts, as he struggles.

He likes to run his fingers through her hair when she does this usually. He likes to sweep it off her neck. He likes to pull at it because he knows she likes it when he pulls at it. This is one of the best kinds of torture. Not letting him touch her. She resolves to do it more often.

She knows when he’s about to come. She watches his stomach tense, and that is when she pulls away, wiping the back of her mouth with her hand. 

“Get over here.” He demands. And she knows he’s not talking about her mouth, but all of her. He wants inside of her and he wants it _now._

Too bad this is about what she wants.

Sansa pretends to do as she’s told, only to straddle one of his thighs. Close to his cock, but not close enough. Jon tries to move his hips, but she’s trapped him. She pushes the straps of her dress down her arms, until the neckline is down to her waist, and her breasts are bare. 

“Kiss me.” She says. 

He kisses her gladly, probably because he finally gets to touch her. He starts on the space over her heart and then moves lower. His mouth is so warm against her nipple that it burns as he sucks. His beard scratches against her skin. Her arm winds around her neck as she pulls him closer. Her hips buck against the hard feel of his thigh, the friction of his skin delightful against her heat. She’s still sensitive from his attentions earlier, but it isn’t nearly enough.

He struggles against the leather. “Let me help you.

His voice is roughened in a way that makes her face heat and it’s a plea, not a demand. It’s stronger. More urgent and desperate. Sansa rolls her hips again, deliberately moaning into his ear. She feels his entire body tense beneath her.

“How would you help me?” She whispers. “How would you touch me?”

“Let me go and I’ll show you.”

She trails her other hand down her body, over her dress, underneath her skirt until she’s touching herself. Jon watches, jaw clenched and eyes wild.

“Or I can show you.”

She moves against his cock, so he isn’t inside her but underneath her as she rocks her hips. Her hand is moving in tight circles over her clit and her mouth is just near his ear. His groans encourage her, vibrating her chest and sending shocks down her spine. He’s hot and thick and slick and she ruts against him mindlessly, desperately. The ache between her legs has turned into a throb that she can’t quite take for much longer. 

Sansa relents and lets him inside her, then. His sound of relief and the feeling of him deep within her, down to the hilt, is enough to send her spiraling. Her entire body gives a shudder as a wave of pleasure crests over her. She can finally breathe.

But Jon is still inside of her, moving up against her as her body clenches and pulls at him. His hips jerk as if he can’t control himself. Sansa decides she can’t deny him and longer, as she rocks against him, slowly at first. As she works him, she feels a twinge of something else that makes her eyes water. She’s still so sensitive and raw from coming just seconds before. But moves faster, and it starts to blur into something else. Good, but also unbearable. The feeling is all consuming, and she chokes on it.

“Just a bit more, Sans.” Jon whispers breathlessly into her neck, cursing. “I’ll be quick, fuck— _fuck—”_

He comes just like that, deep inside of her. She rides it out clumsily, thighs trembling. Much to her horror, she comes again and it’s the worst. Annihilating. Destructive. It knocks the wind out of her, and she can’t even make a sound. She just slumps against him, and takes it. Their skin sticks together. 

“You okay?” He asks her after awhile, when she hasn’t moved. She feels limp and wooden at the same time.

“Yeah.” She croaks. “Fine.”

Her legs are trembling as she slides off of him, unbuckling his bonds on each side. Sansa collapses on her side of the bed, spent and overstimulated. She feels Jon’s arms come up around her.

“If you make me come again,” She warns him. “I think I’ll die.”

His laugh makes her back vibrate and the warmth in it makes her want to curl up with him like this forever. 

“I think I’ll leave the taking charge stuff to you from now on.” She nuzzles against him. Clearly, the power had gone to her head.

“I wouldn’t mind seeing you do it again.” He kisses her neck.

“Maybe I will, then. If you piss me off again.”

Jon pulls her closer to him. “I should have called.”

“Yeah.” Sansa replies in a small voice. “You should have.”

“It’s just—” He hesitates. “I was visiting my foster dad. While I was away. I went to go see him. And...I told him about you.”

“What?” 

“I told him I was seeing someone. And that it was serious. And he wants to meet you.” Jon sighs. “When I got back, I was nervous about telling you because I wasn’t sure if you thought we were serious. So I just...didn’t.”

Sansa is speechless, for a moment. Then she turns to prop herself up on her elbows. The words still don’t come to her. She doesn’t know what to say.

He continues talking, fast like he has a case of word vomit. Like he’s nervous, which is impossible. Jon Snow doesn’t get nervous. “I basically called you my girlfriend—and that would make you my first relationship since….everything. I didn’t wanna put that pressure on you.”

Everything. His car wreck of a marriage. The thing that had caused them to meet in the first place. Pictures of his ex wife leaked that were not safe for work, right in the middle of the campaign. More accurately, the Lannister Herald leaked them. Jon had come storming to the office, demanding that she take them down. He actually yelled. She remembered being so shocked that she wasn’t scared. Every single man in this building knew what she was capable of, and had stopped looking at her like a helpless little bird awhile ago. Needless to say, she wasn’t yelled at by men _often._ So she did the only thing she could do. 

She dumped her coffee on him. 

A few days later, when they happened to be at the same bar, he apologized to her, which also struck her as weird. He was earnest and sincere and frankly, an enigma. How did someone with a temper like that poll so well? How did he gain such a following in the matter of two years? What makes him so easy to love? Sansa was determined to find out. And that led her to ending up in his bed. Which led her to—

Now. 

She’s faced with the same question. What makes Jon Snow so easy to love? She doesn’t have an answer. She just knows with a shocking amount of calm certainty, that she loves him too, now.

“I’d love to meet your dad.” She blurts. 

“Really?” His eyebrows rise. “You don’t have to if you don’t want to. If it’s too much, I’d understand. I don’t wanna push you into anything–”

He’s still talking. Why is he still talking? Sansa cuts him off. “Jon.”

He looks at her, still mildly apprehensive, but he doesn’t speak again.

“I’m yours.” She tells him. “Okay?”

His mouth parts, as shock ripples across his face. Then relief. Then contentment. 

He says, “Okay.”


End file.
